Unspeakable Words

by Sarah Madison

  “Today Holmes would be replaced with a computer,” Flynn said, and this time Jerry could distinctly hear the drawl. “So, again, why keep all the bits in your head when there’s Google at your fingertips?”

  “You still have to know what to look for,” Jerry snapped. The headlights from the oncoming cars were starting to give him a headache.

  “So”—Flynn seemed quietly amused—“are you Holmes or Watson?”

  “Holmes,” Jerry said. Of course he was Holmes. Anyone with half a brain would have to appreciate his talents and skills.

  “I don’t think so,” Flynn said. “You want to be Holmes, but you’re Watson all the way.”

  Jerry drove in tight-lipped silence the rest of the way to his apartment.

  “SHOES off,” Jerry said, toeing off his shoes and leaving them by the door. Flynn followed suit on entering the apartment.

  “Nice view.” Flynn crossed over to the couch and dropped his bag.

  “I certainly pay through the nose for it,” Jerry said, sorting his mail as he walked. He headed for a small desk located near the large bay window. The blinds were still open, and the lights of the city reflected out across the water. “Sorry, this place only runs to one bedroom. It’s a pull-out couch for you.”

  “No problem.” Flynn looked around in mild curiosity as Jerry slit open his mail. It took him a matter of seconds to weed out the junk mail and place the rest in the wooden sorting box on his desk, a series of thin slots to hold the mail with numbers at the bottom to indicate by which date the bill must be paid. That task done, Jerry pulled the blinds shut and turned to see Flynn continuing his quiet inventory of the room.

  Jerry wondered what he saw. He glanced around his own apartment, trying to see it with a stranger’s eyes. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with neat, orderly rows of books and CDs. What would stand out more? The impressive collection or the fact that it was arranged in alphabetical order? Would Flynn note his taste in music or the fact that his sound system wasn’t top of the line and was several years old?

  Jerry continued his self-assessment, wondering if he came off as pretentious. An electronic keyboard over by one wall. The entire room done in neutral colors with blue and white accents. A forty-one-inch-screen television with the TiVo box endlessly recording shows he never had time to watch. A view of the Bay. Laptop on a well-organized desk near the window, another one on the coffee table. Everything clean and tidy. Jerry realized with a start that he could have been looking at a generic hotel room for all the individual impression he’d left on his apartment.

  Oliver trotted into the room, took one look at Flynn, and stopped, semi-arching his back like a Halloween cat and puffing his tail. His ears partially flattened against his skull, making the black tabby markings on his brown face look like fierce tribal war paint.

  “That’s Oliver,” Jerry said tersely. “He’s not used to strangers, so you probably won’t see him much. Don’t try to pet him. Don’t let him out of the apartment.” He left Flynn to walk into his bedroom, shrugging out of his jacket and removing his tie as he went. He hung both up in the closet, hesitating a second until he decided to go ahead and change clothes, the way he normally would in the evenings. Oliver followed him into the room, yowling in protest or hunger—with him it was hard to tell.

  “It’s just one night, buddy,” Jerry promised.

  The cat lashed his tail briefly and sat down to stare at Jerry while he changed.

  When he reentered the living room, he found that Flynn had taken off his coat and tie and was sitting on the couch in front of the open laptop, his blue shirt rolled up at the sleeves and open at the neck. Flynn glanced up at Jerry’s entrance but dropped his eyes back to the view screen almost immediately.

  “You can plug in your flash drive to that one.” Jerry paused on his way to the kitchen. “Keep all your sensitive data isolated there.” He indicated the second laptop on the desk. “Use that one for the internet. It’s got a direct Ethernet connection, and I’ve placed secure firewalls at the entry points to the network.”

  Flynn nodded as if this was all a matter of common sense, and for once, Jerry didn’t feel like a freak for taking reasonable security precautions. He continued into the kitchen, Oliver running ahead of him to rub his face on the edge of the refrigerator. He began to shift his weight on little white paws and vocalized his impatience.

  Jerry released a little sigh. It only made sense to change clothes when he got home, but it was more than just taking good care of a well-made suit. It was part of leaving the job behind at the end of the day; it was necessary to his well-being. A part of him had resisted changing tonight when there was still work to be done, but he wasn’t about to cook dinner in his best suit. The shirt he’d chosen was navy blue with thin white stripes; he’d left it untucked over new dark-blue jeans. He’d hesitated over putting on his house slippers and had chosen to go with thick athletic socks instead. He was comfortable yet didn’t feel too out of place with Flynn still wearing most of his suit.

  Oliver stood up on his hind legs and bumped a shoulder into Jerry’s leg, meowing insistently until Jerry opened a can of food, dumped it into a bowl, and placed it on the mat by the fridge. The cat settled down at the bowl, eating messily and purring loudly all the while. Jerry rinsed the can and placed it in the recycling bin.

  He turned the oven on to preheat and took the salmon he’d planned for dinner out of the fridge. He’d previously made a marinade, and the salmon was already in a baking dish, ready to cook.

  Starting a pot of water to boil, he scrubbed some tiny new potatoes with a wire brush under cold water and cubed them. He’d blanch them when the water began to boil and then bake them in the oven with some asparagus spears, brushing them both with garlic butter. He worked steadily on prepping the food. When the timer went off, he placed both dishes in the oven.

  He was opening a bottle of Riesling when Flynn appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. Oliver, having finished his dinner, hissed and bolted from the room, scrambling to avoid Flynn’s legs as he did so.

  Jerry pulled down two glasses and began to pour the wine.

  “None for me,” Flynn said in a tone that brooked no discussion.

  Jerry flicked a glance in his direction and was startled to see something that looked like assessment there. Probably still trying to figure out what to make of me. It caused a little flush of heat to flow over him just the same. Don’t be stupid, he told himself. Guys like him just… don’t.

  “Hope you like fish,” Jerry said somewhat repressively. He continued to pour the Riesling for himself. He opened the fridge and took out a pitcher of cold water, filling the other glass from it.

  “Not really.” Flynn shrugged in the manner of someone who would eat what was placed in front of him if he had no other options.

  “Well, dinner will be ready in about thirty minutes or so. Shall we?” He indicated the other room with his glass, offering the water to Flynn. “Unless you’d rather have coffee?”

  “Water’s fine.” Flynn took the glass, and they both went back to the main room. Flynn had somehow already converted the coffee table into a small workspace, file folders untidily stacked beside the laptop, photographs threatening to slide out and onto the floor.

  Jerry automatically picked up a folder, setting down his glass of wine to straighten the contents as he sat on the couch. He paused as the photographs caught his attention. He opened the folder completely and began laying out the photos on the table so that they pieced together the picture from where they were taken. “What’s this?” he asked. “Some sort of shrine to the killings? I didn’t realize that you guys had gotten that close to the killer.”

  Flynn sat down on the couch beside him, setting down his glass of water and looking at the photos as well. “We didn’t. Lauren King put those together.”

  Jerry shot him a sharp look, but Flynn seemed to be seeing something else altogether, his expression distant and thoughtful. “King was obsessed with catching the kil
ler. She recreated the murder book at home and then compiled every media reference as well. Every newspaper article, anything and everything that mentioned any aspect of the case. Her obsession almost torpedoed her career, and in the end, threatened even her sanity.”

  “Shit,” Jerry breathed out, laying down the folder like it might be contagious. “It must have been hard on her when that photo turned up.”

  “She didn’t want to bring it all up again. She’d tried to put all that behind her, to move on. I wouldn’t let her. I made her get involved.” He spoke matter-of-factly. Jerry couldn’t hear any regret in his voice, though he thought he could detect a flicker of it in his eyes.

  Flynn blinked and the moment was gone. “For all the good that did us. We’re still no closer to catching the GFT killer today than we were then.”

  “New developments notwithstanding?”

  Flynn gave him a narrow-eyed look. “This person we’re supposed to interview tomorrow—Emily Marsden—claims that she thinks she knows who the killer might be. After we get her statement, we’ll go see King and get her take on it.”

  “Um, I don’t know if you know, but Inspector King and her partner both are in the hospital at the moment. Gunshot wounds. Touch and go if her partner will even make it.”

  Flynn raised an eyebrow at him. “So?”

  Jerry blinked. “So, now might not be the best time to bring up the GFT case again. At least not until we check out the woman’s story.” And give poor King a few days to come out of ICU. Jerk. Jerry frowned at Flynn, who stared back at him with an impatient expression on his face. The neckline of his collar was open enough so that Jerry could see a thin silver chain and a respectable amount of hair curling at the edges. Damn it, the guy had to be the same age as him, give or take a few years. Jerry could make out the faint glint of silver in his sideburns now. Flynn’s hair was thick and unruly. He’d probably still have a shock of iron-gray hair when he was an old man. The injustice of this grated along with everything else about Flynn. “What makes you doubt the woman’s information?”

  “She waited a long damned time to come forward with it.” Flynn leaned back on the couch, sprawling his arms to encompass the back of the seat. He stared broodingly at the laptop.

  “So, what do we know about Ms. Marsden?” He sat in silence as he let Flynn fill him in, trying not to look like he was sizing Flynn up any more than he had been this evening. Marsden was a curator at the Weir, one of the many small museums in the Bay Area that offered a variety of art and scientific curiosities. She’d contacted the bureau earlier in the week, stating she had information regarding the GFT case, yet had seemed very disappointed when neither King nor Flynn was available to take her statement. She’d also seemed nervous, and it had taken a promise to get Flynn back to interview her personally for her to agree to speak to the bureau.

  Jerry felt a little petty and small-minded when he realized Flynn had to come all this way because the witness wouldn’t talk to anyone else. Control of the case had nothing to do with it. Perversely, that annoyed him as well.

  The timer went off in the kitchen, and Jerry rose to turn the salmon and the asparagus.

  “Smells good.” Flynn’s voice startled him, coming from behind unexpectedly, and Jerry almost dropped the pan. He hurriedly pushed it back into the oven and set down the tongs.

  “Why’d you decide to stay here tonight?” Jerry heard himself ask before he could stop himself. “For that matter, why set yourself up to stay in the worst part of town?”

  Flynn looked taken aback for the briefest of moments before the blank expression slid over his features again. “You know the daily stipend only goes so far. If I stay someplace cheap, I have more money to use in the investigation where it might do some good. As for staying with you”—Flynn paused and that little half smirk tugged at his mouth again—“you made a couple of interesting statements earlier. That intrigued me.”

  “Really. Do tell,” Jerry heard himself say, and he wondered just what the fuck was wrong with him. He had to work with this guy, for heaven’s sake. He could at least try not to piss him off right away.

  Flynn just nodded. “Back at the airport, you said that I should give you my interpretation of the new developments. And in the car, you said I should tell you what I wanted you to know. Very revealing statements, Agent Parker. Feeling a little unloved and unappreciated perhaps?” Flynn’s smile was positively wicked before it disappeared.

  “Oh, and now you’re going to analyze me, is that it?” Jerry tossed the potholder down on the counter with more force than was strictly necessary. “Oh, go on, this will be good.”

  As he expected, Flynn took the challenge. “You’ve reached a point in your career where you think you should be acknowledged for your skills and achievements.”

  “Is that what they teach you in profiling school? Seriously, what man my age doesn’t feel that way? You’ll have to do better than that.” Jerry folded his arms across his chest.

  “You’ve been overlooked for promotion time and again because you don’t have good people skills.”

  “You’ve read my file. Newsflash, I’ve read yours. Next.” He unfolded his arms long enough to flick his fingers in a beckoning gesture toward Flynn.

  Flynn’s indescribable eyes narrowed. “You’re meticulous and thorough to a fault. Your attention to detail is what helps you nail cases, but it pisses off your coworkers because you think anyone who’s not as detail-oriented as you are is an idiot. You surround yourself with beautiful things in your off time.” He indicated the general direction of the living room. “The classics of literature and music, nice clothes. You’ve developed an appreciation for good food and the fine things in life, all carefully within your means. You tell yourself that this is to make up for the ugliness in the world, but the truth is you’re afraid of living and afraid of getting hurt. Life is dirty. If you can’t control it, you want no part of it. And that’s why you’re a sad and lonely man, growing progressively colder and more sterile as you age because you’ve forgotten how to have fun.”

  Jerry opened his mouth but then closed it with a snap. He pivoted on his heel and moved to collect Oliver’s empty bowl, taking it to the sink and scrubbing it out vigorously under the hot water with the “cat” sponge before setting it aside to dry. “If I was as big a control freak as you think, I wouldn’t have a cat,” he said when he could speak without obvious anger.

  “The cat indicates that there’s hope for you. Though you’re making him as unsocial as you are.”

  Jerry felt like he’d been punched in the gut. All the air went out of him for a moment and then came rushing back with an anger he couldn’t contain.

  “Whereas you, on the other hand, are an adrenaline junkie,” he said, making a little face at Flynn. “Champion downhill skier in your youth. An Olympic hopeful until you trashed your knee. Tried to climb all fifty-three of Colorado’s fourteen-K mountains until an ill-fated trip and an unexpected storm resulted in the death of a friend. Three commendations in your record, which balances out the two formal reprimands for self-endangerment. Do you always push yourself until something breaks?”

  Flynn looked like he’d been carved of stone. “So you read my file. You said as much already.”

  “Yes,” Jerry snapped, just getting started now. “And while it is patently obvious that you went into profiling serial killers because the murderer of your younger sister has never been caught, it doesn’t say in your records that your current need to place yourself in danger stems from the fact that you believe on some level you deserve to be hurt.”

  “Do go on,” Flynn said in a tone that Jerry knew all too well meant that he was crossing a line big-time.

  He couldn’t help it; he was compelled to finish his assessment. “You’re good-looking and not above using it to your advantage. You’re relentless in the pursuit of your cases. You don’t care who gets hurt along the way, but it’s not about racking up points in the case-closed column. You have a deep personal nee
d to see each one of these cases solved, the perpetrators behind bars. You don’t drink, so either you have an alcohol problem, or you know someone who does. I’m guessing your mother, as a result of your sister’s unsolved murder. Shall I go on?”

  A muscle twitched in Flynn’s jaw. He stood with fists clenched, and his head tipped down so that he glowered at Jerry out from under the fringe of his hair. It was such an intense look that Jerry was afraid he was about to get punched in the face. He could feel the tension radiating off Flynn, and it struck him as odd that, in some ways, it was no different from the heat and spark between two potential lovers. He couldn’t remember ever having to worry about a lover putting him in the hospital, however.

  They stood facing each other, both of them breathing a little hard. The ticking sound of the kitchen clock seemed inordinately loud. Then just like that, Flynn relaxed.

  “Not bad,” he drawled, leaning into the doorframe of the kitchen. “Ever think about going into profiling?”

  “Not really,” Jerry said, unable to let go of the tension quite as easily. Flynn’s ability to switch it off made him wonder if this whole little scene had been some sort of test in the first place. “The bureau seems to like being able to shift me around to different cases as needed.”

  “So which am I?” Flynn straightened out of his lean so that the two of them could return to the living room. “John the Baptist or John the Disciple?”

  “John the Baptist,” Jerry said without hesitation as he replaced the potholders on their hooks above the stove. “A voice in the wilderness. Martyr.”

  Flynn released a loud, honking laugh that caught Jerry off guard.

  “Come on,” Jerry said with a little smile of his own, indicating they should return to the coffee table and the work at hand. “Tell me about the fairy tale connection.”

  HE’D told Flynn to be ready early in the morning, but it annoyed him when he made his way toward the bathroom only to find the door shut and the sound of the shower running. He glanced at his watch and resigned himself to waiting for his turn. He yawned mightily and headed into the living room, where he was pleasantly surprised to find the couch already put away, the blankets and pillow from the night before folded in a neat stack on the arm of the sofa, the files back in the carryall. He pulled the blinds open, scratching the back of his neck as he looked out over the early morning fog.